


Tied

by snowpuppies



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Angst, Dark, F/M, First Time, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-04
Updated: 2009-04-04
Packaged: 2017-10-02 07:06:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snowpuppies/pseuds/snowpuppies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"They're tied together, now and, in a way, he thinks they always have been." </i></p><p>After The Gift, Dawn is Called. Spike has other ideas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by [Kitty Poker](http://kitty-poker1.livejournal.com/).

 

  
A pillow sails through the air, landing squarely on the side of the BuffyBot's head.

"Dawn is my little sister. She cries a lot."

"I do not!"

Filled with a strange mix of amusement and grief, Spike watches as Dawn stomps up the stairs, waiting only until the 'Bot leaves the room before he follows, climbing to the second floor as well.

It's what he does now.

Follow.

Watch.

He has since the minute they'd returned to the house; the moment he regained his senses after watching Buffy fall, he began watching.

He knows that even if they share the same blood, it's a long-shot, but there's just something niggling in the back of his mind, some _instinct_ that screams at him to watch.

Just in case.

So he does.

It's not all he does, though. In between watching her cry and scream and throw food at Red and stomp around the house—and how does a girl so small make so much noise?—he gets ready. He packs away supplies: money, food, clothing…whatever he can get his hands on, whatever will be _useful_.

He hopes it won't be necessary, but he can't take any chances.

He promised to protect, and that's what he'll do.

 

***

 

The first sign comes about a month after the tower, after the fall, after the whole world went to hell.

It's long enough in coming that he knows there's been another, maybe two, in between. Another girl, bright and happy and young, snuffed out before she even began to understand what she was.

He used to hunt them for fun.

Now the idea makes him sick.

 

And all signs point toward Dawn as the next.

 

He can't really blame her—the 'Bot wasn't meant to take over big sisterly duties—and after a while, the fake smile and the perky, happy comments get to be too much, and she _pushes_, and the 'Bot's arm pops off.

It's not a confirmation—it could just be that there was a weak joint, that the weld wasn't done correctly—but it's enough that he begins the last of his preparations.

And has a talk with Glinda.

There's no use running if you can be tracked with a simple spell, after all.

 

***

 

The confirmation comes when she stakes her first vamp.

Oh, it's possible for an ordinary human to stake a vamp—hell, if Harris can do it, anyone can—but it's not the staking that cinches the deal, it's the _way_ she does it that makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

They're just returning from a routine patrol—Red, Harris, Glinda and himself—when they're ambushed, about twenty yards from the Summers' front door.

They've got a routine, a well-coordinated dynamic that works for them most of the time, but they're caught unawares, and there are two vamps for each of the humans, three for himself. He can handle it, of course, and he's not concerned for the witches—they're strong enough together to handle their four—but Harris has already been through the wringer tonight, and out of the corner of his eye, Spike sees him falter.

He's trying to cross the yard to help the boy out when the front door slams open and a brown, blue and pink blur flies into the fray.

It's Dawn, stake in hand, scowl in place as she stakes two vamps and pulls Harris from the ground, shoving him towards the house—where Demon Girl's brandishing a cross on the front porch—before she runs to help the witches.

She's…_amazing_, dodging and leaping and whirling and _slaying_, not quite like Buffy—she's taller, and longer limbs require different moves, different balance—but still, elegant and beautiful and supernaturally strong.

But it's not the physical grace and poise that confirms his suspicions, it's the glow in her eyes as she wades through the floating ash, that _hunger_ that's been present in every Slayer he's ever fought.

And it's then that he knows.

Dawn's a Slayer, and the Council will be there any day.

 

They leave that very night.

 

***

 

It's not that he doesn't think Dawn's capable.

She could learn the skills, easily, and with the Big Bad as her teacher, she'd be ready for nearly anything.

It's not the physical aspect of Slaying that concerns Spike, however, it's the emotional.

Dawn's much too soft-hearted to be a Slayer. She has too much faith in others—reminds him of Joyce, the way she took him in and treated him as a man, even while he was a monster—and one day, it'll mean her death.

That's no life for his Bit.

And it's not what he promised.

And he doesn't even want to _think_ about what would happen to her if the Council sends in one of their Wankers.

 

So he'll do the only thing he can do: take Dawn and _run_.

 

***

 

They run for three months, sleeping in abandoned buildings and houses—in a bed if they can find one—living hand to mouth and foot to pavement.

After a week, she's learned how to use her newly-found Slayer grace to distract the locals while he picks their pockets. And if there are any problems, she takes care of the humans, and they deal with the demons together.

It's a good system, and they work well together.

The Council catches up with them twice, but he's got a good sixty years of experience on the oldest of the bunch and, time and again, they slip away.

He knows their luck will run out eventually.

 

***

 

He runs, Dawn's heaving breath echoing next to him, and he wonders if this time will be the last.

He jerks to the side just as a tranquilizer dart whizzes past his skull—the Council's hunters are gaining on them—when in the distance he hears a rumble…and a whistle.

Eyes widening, he grabs Dawn's hand and pulls her towards their only hope; even the hunters' ATV's can't keep up with a train moving at full speed. They scramble through a wooded area, jumping fallen limbs and logs and roots, plowing through brambles, until they stumble onto the track. The train is pulling away, just ahead.

The forest has given them a bit of leeway, but it'll all go to shit if they don't catch that train.

So they run, fingers knotted together, drawing closer…_closer_…

Suddenly, she slips from his grip.

Turning, he scoops her up and begins to run again. He's just about reached an open boxcar when he feels the hot liquid splashing against his face and neck; she's bleeding, but he doesn't have time to stop. With a heave, he throws them both into the car.

She falls to the floor, unmoving.

Scrambling to her, he finally sees the damage: one of the hunters' darts hit her neck.

It nicked the jugular.

A pool of blood is spreading beneath her as blue eyes flutter up at him.

"Spike."

"Bit." He presses his fingers to the wound, but he knows it's too little, too late, and he sees it all crumbling down around him. He swore to protect her, and she's dying.

Gasping for breath, she stares into his eyes.

"Change…me…"

"No." There's no way. "This isn't…I'm supposed to protect you—this isn't what Big Sis would want."

Her eyes narrow as a hand shoots out the grasp the collar of his t-shirt—it's surprisingly strong, even for a Slayer who's lost so much blood—and gives him a shake.

"I'm..." She shudders, coughing a little; he feels the blood splatter against his face. "Not. Buffy." She growls.

He closes his eyes.

She's right.

So he lets himself be pulled down, closer, her rasping breath soft against his cheek, until her moist lips brush his neck and blunt, human teeth sink into his flesh. He leans into her hold, and lets her drink.

Later, when her body slumps to the floor and her eyes glaze over, he holds her close, and for the first time in a hundred and twenty-one years, he prays.

He just doesn't know what he's praying for.


	2. Chapter 2

 

  
He sits, slouched against the wall, watching.

The steady click-clack of the train fills the boxcar and pulses through his body; it's surprisingly comfortable, considering he's had more than a century to get used to the lack of movement in his chest.

Suddenly, the air shifts and he sits up. Slipping to his knees, he inches towards the body on the floor.

He knows it won't be long and he's not disappointed—in moments, bright blue eyes open and Dawn sits up, the action a little too effortless, a little too smooth to be natural.

She doesn't blink, but studies him closely; the look is predatory, but there's a spark of recognition underneath the hunger.

He doesn't move, but as they stare at one another, he feels a strange connection.

The noise of the train fades away.

 

The world is still…

 

…and everything he knows and everything he's experienced in all his years is hanging by a thread and suddenly he realizes that the next few moments will change his entire universe, and instead of dreading the moment, he's hungering for it. He can feel it, taste it, can almost _touch_ the future sitting just a few feet away…

…but he doesn’t have to reach for it.

Before he can finish his thoughts, she moves, sailing across the cabin to crash against his body, tackling him to the floor. He screams as his neck is ripped open, small, delicate-looking hands leaving bruises on his shoulders.

In moments, the pain fades into a dull ache and his eyes flutter shut as Dawn's small body burrows against him, her soft, needy whimpers echoing in the empty boxcar.

He's floating, high in the clouds, and he's never felt so right.

 

The sucking ceases at his neck and moves to his lips; he opens his mouth to her tongue as they kiss for the first time.

Before—even before the tower—there had been moments, times when the air between them was charged with meaning, with potential, but he always held back. He didn't want to meet the end of the Slayer's stake and, more importantly, Dawn had been so _young_. And in the past few months…sharing a bed, waking, spooned, with her warm, soft body, her arse snuggled against his groin…there were times he'd nearly given in.

He knows now that it was inevitable.

He belongs to Dawn now, and she's always belonged to him.

He grunts as his jeans are ripped open and his shirt is torn from his body. Sprawled on the floor, he lies helpless, pinned by Dawn's yellow eyes as she strips him, metaphorically and literally, hikes up her skirt, tears the panties from her body, and sinks down on his cock.

He yells, a long, ragged cry that rises above the click-clack of the train, as she begins to rock.

Surfacing from his stupor, he surges upward, bucking into her body, hands rising from the floor to knot in her hair. He tugs and she leans forward; the bones in his face shift as he licks the dried blood from her neck, worrying the wound with his tongue until a trickle of metallic fluid paints his tongue.

He growls, sinking his fangs into Dawn's pale flesh as his hips bang into her thighs, the slapping and squelching of their flesh blending with the whimpers and moans from their mouths.

She shudders above him, small, cool hands gripping his shoulders, his neck, his head in desperation. Her knees press into his sides as she comes, squeezing his prick until the world turns white, then black, and he explodes.

He slumps to the ground, arms cradling the weight on his chest.

He's always been love's bitch, but he's never before felt so _possessed_.

He thinks it was worth waiting for.

 

***

 

He gives her a choice.

Once upon a time…a month, even a week ago, he'd have made the decision for them, carting Bitty Buffy back to Red in a heartbeat, get her slapped with a soul, fixed up nice just like big sis would want.

But he knows it's not his decision to make.

It's what Buffy would want, but Buffy's dead, and Dawn will never be the girl she was before. He has to live with the Dawn that exists now, _she_ has to live with the Dawn that exists now, the one with fangs and yellow eyes and a distinct lack of a heartbeat—although both incarnations have a disturbing fondness for those nancy boy bands.

It's a distinction that helps when, come morning, he's balls-deep in her cunt, fangs scraping against her bare chest while sharp nails carve her brand into his back—this is Dawn _now_, and that's all that matters.

He's a bit shocked when she chooses to go home.

 

***

 

He chooses their victims very carefully.

He has since she woke, really, carefully sticking to the guidelines she'd set for him when she was still alive, bringing him the human baddies she'd caught abducting children or raping the homeless, one eyebrow cocked at his disbelief as she opened their jugulars with a knife before tossing them his way, remarking, "Guess I'm a crappy Slayer, then."

He can tell she doesn't much care, baddie or not, but she humors him, only drinking when he gives the go-ahead, yellow eyes fastened on his as he joins her after the victim's pain response fades near death.

He doesn't know if she'll have her soul back or not, but he won't let the guilt pile up, either way.

 

***

 

They arrive in Sunnydale without fanfare, tossing a nest of vamps from his former crypt then christening all the horizontal—and some vertical—surfaces, some twice.

It isn't until they arrive at the house that they learn of Buffy's revival.

She stands at the door, wide-eyed, gaping, and looking more than a bit confused. "Spike…Dawn…"

Red comes to the rescue after a moment, pulling the Slayer from the doorway and issuing the invitation.

Dawn's fingers find his as they walk through the door.

"How?" she asks Willow, nodding her head towards the Slayer.

"We brought her back. She was stuck in a hell dimension, so she's still a little…you know, out of it."

Spike holds back a snort; the Slayer looks like she's _in_ a hell dimension. He feels a momentary pang of concern, but pushes it aside—he's there for one girl, and one girl only, and as soon as she gets what she came for, they'll leave the Hellmouth in their dust.

Dawn hums under her breath as she studies her sister, then turns to Willow. "Take it out."

Red blinks, brow furrowed. "Huh?"

"The chip. Take it out. I know you know how."

If he had a heart, it would have leapt into his throat. Forgetting about the Scoobies, he turns his attention to the girl, the _woman_ he's going to spend the rest of his unlife with.

He wants to rip the jeans from her body, fall to his knees and worship between her thighs.

He settles for squeezing her hand.

"Dawnie, I…"

"Yes, you can."

"Buffy, what do I...?"

Dawn's jaw clenches—she doesn't have much more patience than he does—and a growl erupts from her chest as her fangs drop. "Do it, _now_."

Spike feels a growl answer in his own chest; he doesn't remember ever being this turned on.

In a moment, a blur flies across the room; one-handed, Dawn catches the Slayer's wrist just before the stake slips into Spike's chest.

"Buffy."

Slowly, the Slayer's attention turns to her sister. "Dawn." A sound that's half-word, half-sob comes from her mouth, and her face crumples as she begins to cry. Grip firm, Dawn holds her away when she would curl against Dawn's shoulder.

"Buffy, the Council did this. _They_ killed me." She pauses while Buffy regains her composure. "This is what I am now—you can't change it, and I don't want you to. But I promise, after Willow gets the chip out of Spike, we're going to leave, and as long as you're here, as long as any of you are here, we won't come back. Not ever."

Blinking, the Slayer turns away.

In a moment, she turns to Red, and nods.

 

***

 

They go…anywhere, everywhere. They spend several months in New York and a few in Paris, traveling across the globe on a whim, Dawn squealing over clothes and shoes and European bands while he basks in her smile.

At first, he holds to his routine—feeding on the dregs of society, making sure she does the same—and she never protests, following his lead until he's ready to change.

It's about three months after the chip's come out that he breaks the habit.

A girl in Paris, young, blonde and helpless, calls to him.

He sinks his fangs into her before he even realizes what he's doing. Her blood is warm and spicy and it slides down his throat like magic, filling his belly with energy and life and heat. She tastes like innocence.

With a delighted growl, Dawn latches onto the other side of the body, her fingers twisting and knotting in his hair as she holds him in place.

When he's had his fill, he rips Dawn's mouth from the girl and fills it with his tongue, fangs clashing together as he backs her into a wall. She wraps her legs around his waist and they fuck under the streetlight, the cooling body only yards away.

Groaning in satisfaction, he lets her legs slide to the ground, licking the traces of blood from her chin and lips.

"Spike?" she breathes into his ear.

"Yeah, Pet?" Tracing the lines of her neck with his lips, he nibbles on her earlobe.

She smiles. "I love you."

Even though she's never really said it, he's not shocked.

He's always known.

"I know, Love."

Wrapping her arms around his back, she rests her head on his shoulder. "I did, even, _before_."

"Yeah." He pulls her close and the scent of her shampoo fills his nostrils. "Me, too."

They're tied together, now and, in a way, he thinks they always have been.

He knows they always will be.

Pressing a kiss against petal-soft lips, he whispers, "Let's go, Dawn."

He takes her hand as they step over the corpse, and leads her away into the night.

 

 

_FIN_.

 

Originally archived [here](http://snowpuppies.livejournal.com/187791.html).


End file.
